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The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.

Sylvia Plath

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Sylvia Plath
Age: 30 †
Born: 1932
Born: October 27
Died: 1963
Died: February 11
Autobiographer
Diarist
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Victoria Lucas
Sylvia Plath Hughes
Ever
Mad
Everything
Remembered
Play
Stuck
Mind
Read
People
Else
Persons
Person
Reason
Flew

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The box is only temporary.
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The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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...we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
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My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.
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I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.
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Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.
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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.
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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!
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I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.
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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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